


The Things that Happen

by GlitterAndDoom



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Arthritis, Community: hc_bingo, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterAndDoom/pseuds/GlitterAndDoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He couldn't play anymore, and that's what killed him.</i> - Tommy gets arthritis, and after losing what he loves most, he falls apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things that Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo square _substance addiction._ My mad writing spree continues.

He couldn't play anymore, and that's what killed him.

Every day, something else hurt. Another muscle, organ, joint. His hands were a wreck, so goddamn gnarled by the disease, so stiff that they could barely move.

Arthritis. Goddamn _grandmothers_ got arthritis, what the actual fuck? He was a bass player, a guitarist, a fucking _rock star_. This sort of fucked-up shit wasn't supposed to happen.

"I'm not even _old_ ," he told anyone who would listen. The ones who would were few and far between these days, driven away by the attitude. Mia would. She'd been there for-fucking-ever and would've kicked his ass if he'd pushed her away like everything else. Monte would, but didn't seem to want to, didn't seem to want to think that it could happen to him, too. Adam would, busy though he was with the whole living legend-with-three-kids-and-a-husband thing. Adam still listened to anyone he loved.

He didn't talk to Adam about it much. Adam was too busy and too nice for fuck-ups.

But no matter how much he railed at the universe, Tommy knew he wouldn't get his fucking hands back.

So he drank.

Alcohol was easy and familiar. He could trace his useless fucking hands over the bottle's curves like a lover, and she'd give him what he needed. He could fill his glass with amber whiskey, his water bottle with clear vodka, his stomach with slow-burning liquor, and he could forget to feel, forget to grieve, forget to remember. Oblivion. He needed oblivion more and more every single fucked-up fucking day.

"Every fucking thing is so fucking fucked-up," he slurred around his drink, and Mia looked at him with pity and squeezed his hand. He jerked it away. God, don't touch his hands. Don't fucking touch his hands. "I hate my life."

"Oh, _honey_." She hugged him tight, not caring when her gray-streaked brown hair fell into the salsa, and he hated it. He didn't want to remember.

He used to love hugs. He loved a lot of things.

That night, he passed out on the couch, one twisted hand on his spent dick as he wished the woman who'd hugged him hadn't been his best friend, the other holding a drink that shattered on the floor. Women didn't want to touch men who didn't want to be touched back.

Adam noticed. Even though they hadn't seen each other in months, the fucker noticed. "I'm so worried about you," Adam said over the phone one day at stupid o'clock in the morning, and Tommy knew how fucked his time zones probably were.

He wished he didn't remember. Wished he didn't remember screaming fans and insanity and guitar riffs. God, the guitar. Adam was music, and he didn't have that anymore.

He downed another swallow of whiskey.

"I'm fine," he lied, and could almost hear Adam roll his eyes.

" _Right_. That's why you sound like you'd rather cut your dick off than talk to me. Are you getting any help, baby?"

Tommy sighed. Maybe he _was_ fine. "What the fuck do you want, Adam?"

"I—" Adam let out a loud breath. "I couldn't sleep, and I was thinking too much, and I just, like…okay, that's a lie." Tommy figured that. Adam was a shitty liar. "Mia called me."

Tommy's stomach dropped. He took another drink. "She did?" And another.

"She's scared, sweetie. So am I. Said you aren't you anymore, and I just…" Adam sounded lost, helpless. "She thought since I'm me, that if anyone could do anything, it would be me, and I—Tommy Joe, I miss you. We all do."

"Surprised you even remember me." Tommy drained his glass.

"Of course I remember you." Adam laughed, and it was not a happy sound. "I never forget a friend."

 _I wish you would_ , he thought. "Everything's fine."

"Tommy, your drinking—"

Tommy snapped. "Since when did you give a shit? Your life is perfect—why the fuck should you care that I spend every day hurting, that I barely wanna get out of bed sometimes 'cause it hurts too much, that I can't…Jesus fucking Christ, Adam, I can barely tie my own goddamn shoes! I'm fucking forty-three, and I can barely tie my shoes! Who the fuck cares about the booze? I can't play, and I hurt, and I wish you'd leave me the fuck alone so I could just fucking forget about it, okay?"

He didn't give Adam a chance to reply. "Don't call me again," he said, and turned off his phone, then flung it across the room.

It didn't break. Fuck.

Adam didn't call again, because Adam still listened to everyone he loved. And soon, Tommy was alone, just like he'd wanted.

Just like he'd never wanted.

And maybe if he drank enough, he would forget he was alive.


End file.
